


Oliver and Felicity's High School Reunion

by bayloriffic



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Dating, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, School Reunion, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2199426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayloriffic/pseuds/bayloriffic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Felicity's high school reunion, and she convinces Oliver to go with her and pretend to be her boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Felicity forgot to RSVP to the first invitation to her ten-year high school reunion since, at the time, she was busy 1) helping to save Starling City from an army of masked drug-crazed maniacs, 2) traveling to a secret remote island to imprison the leader of said army, and 3) obsessing over just how much of Oliver’s declaration of his love was just a ploy to capture the bad guy and how much of it was possibly an actual heartfelt declaration of his love.

So it should come as no surprise that, when she first received it, the e-vite to Centennial High School’s ten-year high school reunion didn’t even register on Felicity's list of things that warranted her attention. But now, two months after returning from Lian Yu, two months after Starling City has once again begun to rebuild itself, and two months after she and Oliver have returned to an approximation of their pre-love-declaration state, she gets what is apparently the final invitation to the reunion.

She’s sitting at her desk while Oliver and Diggle spar on the mat behind her, checking her email on one screen and monitoring the police databases on the others, when the e-vite pops up.

 

_Centennial High School invites you to our 10 year class reunion!_

 _August 30, 7:00pm_  
 _Centennial High School Gymnasium_  
 _10200 W Centennial Pkwy, Las Vegas, Nevada_

 

“Oh god,” she says as she reads it. “Oh no.” 

Behind her, she hears a thud, and then Diggle’s helping Oliver to his feet, both of them breathing heavy as they walk over to her desk. She’s just sitting there, frozen, staring wide-eyed at the screen.

“Felicity?” Oliver says. “What’s wrong?”

“Ugh,” Felicity says instead of answering. She leans down, pressing her forehead against the edge of her desk, hard enough that it hurts.

Oliver leans against the desk beside her, squinting at the computer screen. Normally, he needs her to walk him through whatever they’re looking at because the screen is full of code and algorithms and schematics. But not this time, since the only thing on the monitor is the damn email, which she’s pretty sure he can figure out on his own.

“Felicity?” Oliver says again, sounding confused. 

“It’s my ten-year high school reunion,” she says into the desk.

“So?” Diggle asks.

“So?” she repeats, lifting her head to look up at the two of them. “So, it’s this weekend, and I totally forgot about it, and...ugh…” She groans again, tipping her head back against her chair. 

“What’s the big deal?” Oliver asks, leaning even closer so that he can read the invitation again, his bare shoulder brushing against her arm. Even with all of the sweatiness, he still smells nice, like soap and expensive cologne and boy, and Felicity shifts towards him without quite meaning to. “Just don’t go.” 

Beside him, Diggle nods in agreement, like just not going is a legitimate solution to her problem. 

“I can’t just not go,” Felicity tells them, incredulous. “It’s the ten-year reunion. I _have_ to go.” 

She clicks on the little RSVP button at the bottom of the email and starts to fill out the form, typing in her name and phone number, her fingers flying over the keyboard even as she shakes her head in annoyance. When she gets to the “Guest” section of the form, she hesitates, her fingers going still.

The thing is, she can’t show up to her high school reunion alone. That certainly won’t send the right message. Felicity bites her lip and taps her fingers idly against her desk, her brain racing to come up with a plan.

The truth is, the only thing that _would_ send the right message is showing up with a super-hot, super-rich boyfriend. Which she obviously doesn’t have. What she does have, however, is a super-hot, super-rich boss who is really good at pretending to be something he’s not. She looks up at Oliver, just as he looks down at her, and she can see the moment he sees what she’s planning, his eyes widening slightly.

“Oliver…” she starts, but he’s already shaking his head and pushing away from her desk.

“Uh uh, Felicity,” he tells her, turning away and walking over to the training mat. She glances over at Diggle for help, but he’s just watching silently, his arms crossed over his chest and an amused look on his face. “No way.”

“Come on, Oliver.” She spins around in her chair to watch him as he picks up his bow and grabs a couple of training arrows. “I’d do it for you.”

Oliver pauses, just for a beat, and she knows he’s probably thinking of all the things she’s done for him. And how if he did ask her to be his fake date to his high school reunion, she would do it in a heartbeat. Not that he’d ever need her to, since he could get a real date very easily, but still. Her point stands. 

“Just say you can’t go!” Oliver finally says, stringing up an arrow and sending it flying into the center of one of the targets.

“I already told you,” Felicity says, exasperated. “I _have_ to go.”

“What the hell for?” He shoots another arrow, and this one goes wide. Beside her, Diggle clears his throat and glances down at the ground, looking for all the world like he’s trying not to smile.

“Because I made a promise to myself that if I ever got out of Vegas and managed to do something with my life, I’d go back and rub it in the face of every asshole who made high school a living hell.” And, yeah, Felicity knows that sounds silly and immature and irrational, but it’s high school. No one is rational about high school. 

“Come on, Felicity,” Oliver says, lowering the bow and turning back towards her with an indulgent smile. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

She scoffs, shaking her head and looking over a Diggle with a smirk. “Spoken like a true cool kid.” 

Diggle nods and smirks back, and Oliver narrows his eyes at him. Felicity guesses their next sparring match is probably going to be a little more aggressive than usual. 

“Hey, I bet you were cool, too.” Oliver winks at her, a totally desperate move that she sees right through. No way is Oliver Queen going to charm his way out of this plan with a freaking wink. 

“I was _not_ cool. I was the definition of not cool. I was a kid who skipped two grades and ate lunch alone in the bathroom and tried to start a computer club. Which, by the way, nobody joined.”

“Oh.”

“But now,” she says, tilting her chin up and squaring her shoulders. “Now, I’m a successful partner to a badass vigilante. Of course no one can actually know that due to the whole secret identity thing, but at the very least I could show up with a billionaire playboy on my arm.”

“I’m an _ex_ -billionaire playboy, remember?” Oliver tries.

Felicity just rolls her eyes, because, please. That’s just semantics.

“Besides,” he adds, sounding sort of desperate. “I need to stick around here, make sure no new evils befall Starling City.” He looks over at Diggle for support. “Right, Digg?”

“Actually, things have been pretty quiet around here,” Diggle offers, and Oliver glares at him. Yeah, there aren’t going to be any pulled punches the next time they’re on the mat. “Besides, I’ll be around to keep an eye on things.”

“Yeah, see,” Felicity agrees, smiling gratefully at Diggle. “Digg’s got Starling City covered. So, Oliver. What do you say? Want to come to Vegas with me and be my pretend boyfriend for the weekend? Pretty please?” She clasps her hands together in a pleading gesture, and she sees the exact moment he gives in, his face softening and his mouth curling up at the corners.

“Fine,” he says. He pinches the bridge of his nose, but she can tell he's still smiling. “But you owe me.”

*

Since Oliver's position with Queen Consolidated still isn't quite sorted out, they can’t use the private plane or the penthouse at the Encore or any of the other luxuries he normally has at his disposal, but he still gives Felicity his credit card and tells her to go wild. 

It’s not until she starts making all of the arrangements that the realities of her little plan start to hit her. She’s going to be alone all weekend with Oliver, a thousand miles from Starling City, and they’re not even going to have a mission to work on. But, Felicity tries to convince herself, it will be fine. She and Oliver are fine, they’re basically on the same page when it comes to their completely platonic relationship, and things are fine. Really. Plus, they’re going to be in separate rooms at the hotel, so. Things will be fine.

“Everything set for this weekend?” Oliver asks her on Thursday night, just as she’s heading home for the evening. Diggle left a few hours ago, and so it’s just her and Oliver. She’s been dividing her attention between getting the last of their travel arrangements sorted and trying not to stare too obviously as Oliver works out on the salmon ladder.

Felicity nods, pulling on her coat, and not looking at his bare chest. “Our flight leaves Starling City at noon tomorrow, and we fly out of Vegas first thing Sunday morning. The reunion is on Saturday night, which means we’ll basically have to entertain ourselves for Friday night and Saturday afternoon, but it’s Vegas, and we’ll be staying on the Strip, so I’m sure we’ll figure something out. Plus, there's the whole jet lag thing, so we'll probably just want to fall right into bed. Different beds, I mean. Not the same bed, obviously. I booked us two suites at the Bellagio, not just one. Because, you know, we normally don’t sleep in the same bedroom, so why would we now, just because you're pretending to be my boyfriend? And, so. We have separate suites."

When she finally manages to stop babbling, Oliver’s watching her with an amused smile. “Sounds good,” he says. 

“Good,” she says, nodding a little. Because it is good; everything is totally and completely good. A weekend in Vegas alone with Oliver Queen, who she is in love with and who may or may not be in love with her and who will be pretending to be her boyfriend, is a brilliant idea. “Well, goodnight.”

“Oh hey,” he says, reaching out and taking her arm as she walks past him. “Am I going to get to meet your mother?”

“My mother?” Felicity repeats, her stomach dropping. Oliver’s hand is warm through her coat, and she stares down at it as he brushes his thumb lightly over the fabric.

“Yeah. She lives in Vegas, doesn’t she?” Oliver asks. 

“Yes, she does. She does live in Vegas,” Felicity stammers as the full ramifications of her plan start to hit her. She’s already going to have to deal with being back in a town she hates, surrounded by people she can't stand, and spending the weekend with the guy she has an incredibly complicated _thing_ with. There’s no way she can add her mom to the mix. There’s only so much one woman should be expected to handle. 

When she glances up, Oliver’s still looking at her expectantly. “So will I be meeting her?”

“No,” Felicity says, shaking her head and picking up her bag. “It’s just...she probably has to work. Cocktail waitressing is a pretty time-consuming gig, you know? Plus, she doesn’t actually know I’m going to be in town. Not that I don’t want her to know that I’m in town, just that this whole trip is kind of last minute, and, you know. There’s not really going to be time,” she finishes lamely. 

Oliver purses his lips and nods, not saying anything for a couple of seconds. After all, it’s not like complicated parental relationships are some big mystery to him. “Okay,” he finally says, and, with any luck, that will be the end of that.

*

It’s been a long time since Felicity has been back in Vegas -- not since college, actually -- and in that time she’s almost managed to forget how much she hates it. 

She and Oliver step out of the airport and into the hot desert air, both of them blinking against the harsh glare of the sun reflecting off all of the glass and steel of the Strip. 

“Home sweet home,” Felicity mumbles. It feels like it must be a thousand degrees outside, her thin silk blouse is already sticking to her skin, and she can feel the tension creeping into her body, her shoulders already aching from it. 

Oliver leans over and presses his hand against the small of her back, and instead of relaxing like she normally does when he touches her, she starts, flinching away from him. 

“Sorry,” she says, feeling like an idiot. She's just kind of jumpy and anxious from being back here, and the normal pleasant tension she feels whenever she's around Oliver has ratcheted up about a million degrees. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Oliver says, but he looks kind of hurt, his forehead furrowed and his hands held up in front of him. A black town car slides up to the curb, and Oliver opens the door for her as the driver takes their bags. 

They spend the short drive to their hotel in silence, Oliver texting on his phone while Felicity stares out the window at the tourists and the buildings and the tackiness that is Las Vegas.

“Diggle says everything’s fine in Starling City,” Oliver tells her, sliding his phone into his pocket. 

Felicity nods, looking over at him. “Good,” she says, giving him what she hopes is a smile.

It must not be though, because he leans over and touches her softly on the wrist. “Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

“Yeah," she tells him. "I’m fine.” She looks out the window again as they drive past the fountains, and then they're pulling up to the hotel, tall and ornate and tacky. Her mom worked here for three years, back when Felicity was in high school. She used to do her Statistics homework at the Blackjack table. "It’s just weird being back home."

“I know the feeling,” he tells her as the driver opens the door for them, letting in a hot blast of desert air. Felicity takes a deep breath and gets out of the car, following Oliver through the glass doors and into the building. 

The hotel lobby is fairly empty, just a couple of people sitting on the couch below the colorful glass ceiling and a few more milling over near the entrance to the casino floor. There’s only one person working at the check-in desk, a tall, thin brunette in a tasteful black suit, and Felicity and Oliver are only a few steps away when Felicity recognizes her. 

“Ugh,” Felicity says under her breath. 

“What’s wrong?” Oliver asks in a low voice.

“I went to high school with her.” She nods at the woman behind the counter. “Her name's Janice. She totally hated me.” Felicity takes another deep breath and smiles as she and Oliver reach the check-in desk.

“Hello,” Janice says, looking up and giving them a bland, plastic smile. “Welcome to the Bellagio. How may I help you?”

“Janice,” Felicity says with false brightness. “Hey. It’s good to see you.”

Janice looks at her blankly. “I’m sorry,” she says, still with the same plastic smile. “Do we know each other?”

“I’m Felicity, Felicity Smoak,” she says, but Janice is still staring at her blankly. “We went to high school together? You sat behind me in homeroom? Every day? For four years?”

Janice looks at her for a couple of beats and then her face lights up in recognition. “Felicity Smoak!” she says. “Oh wow! You look great!"

Felicity blinks. Maybe this won't be so bad after all. "Oh. Thank you."

Janice shakes her head, looking Felicity up and down. "Weren't you, like, really into computers and video games and all of that geeky tech-kid stuff?”

“I was indeed,” Felicity says wryly. Behind her, she feels Oliver shift, a warm and solid presence at her back.

“You here for the reunion?” Janice asks. 

“Yep,” Felicity says as Janice glances behind her, raising her eyebrows when she sees Oliver. Felicity doesn’t say anything, and Oliver gives her a gentle nudge with his elbow, making her jump. “Oh, right! This is Oliver. He’s my...” she clears her throat and glances back at him. He’s giving her a curious look, his head tilted to the side, and she can’t believe she thought this plan was actually going to work. But they’re here and Janice is looking at her expectantly, and, well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “My boyfriend. He’s my boyfriend. Yep. He is my boyfriend,” she babbles, tapping her fingers against the reservation counter in time with her words. 

“Really?” Janice asks, sounding skeptical. Like it’s so hard to believe that Oliver could be Felicity’s boyfriend. Ugh, forget what Felicity said about this not being so bad after all. It's definitely going to be terrible.

“Oliver Queen,” Oliver says. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Oliver Queen,” Janice repeats, glancing at Felicity. “And Felicity Smoak.” She shakes her head and laughs a little. “Well. Let’s see what we’ve got.” She types something into the computer and smirks. “So, it looks like you guys are going to need two rooms. How romantic.”

“No!” Felicity says, feeling panicked. Shit. “I mean, yes...I mean...Oliver, he...I -- ”

“There must be some mistake,” Oliver interrupts, taking a step forward so that he’s leaning against the polished marble counter beside the computer. He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and his arms look smooth and tan against the countertop.

“It says two rooms.” Janice shrugs, swiveling the computer monitor so he can see the screen. He glances at it with disinterest before turning back to Janice. 

“My assistant made the reservations,” he says smoothly. “She must have made a mistake and double-booked us. Right, darling?” 

Felicity doesn’t answer, not actually registering that _darling_ refers to her, and when Oliver reaches over and brushes a strand of hair away from her face to get her attention, she flinches, jerking away from him. He rolls his eyes. 

“Right, darling?” he says again, giving her a _get it together_ look. 

“Right,” she agrees, laughing and fluttering her hands up near her face in an awkward gesture. Oh god, she’s going to blow their cover before the night is over. “You know how your assistant can be. A total dolt.”

“She’s not a dolt. I’m sure she was just...preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied,” Felicity repeats, not feeling any less like a dolt. “Right.”

“Anyway,” he says, looking back over at Janice with an easy smile. “We only need one room. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Felicity echoes, feeling a little dazed as she realizes what this means. That she and Oliver are going to be sleeping in the same room tonight.

“Of course,” Janice says, typing something else into the computer and then sliding a keycard across the counter to them. “You’re all set. You’ll be in one of our Tower Suites, 28th floor.” 

“Excellent,” Oliver says. He takes the keycard from her and flashes what Felicity recognizes as his fake Oliver-Queen-playboy-extraordinaire smile. “Thank you, Janice.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Queen,” she simpers, and Felicity rolls her eyes as she follows Oliver across the lobby to where the bellhop is waiting with their bags. They all get into the elevator, and she and Oliver move to the back of the car, standing rigidly next to each other as the polished gold doors slide closed.

“You know,” Oliver says, leaning over to speak quietly in her ear. His breath is warm and close and Felicity feels an involuntary shiver run through her body. “If you want me to be your fake boyfriend, you’re going to need to at least pretend like you want me to touch you.” 

“I always want you to touch me,” she says, and her cheeks burn. “I mean, I’m just a little jumpy right now, but I like it when you touch me. What I mean is, I don’t _not_ like it.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head, but Oliver just smiles.

“Well, good,” he says, bumping his shoulder against hers. “Just make sure you act like it when we’re around other people.”

“I’ll try,” she tells him, bumping him back, and his smile gets wider.

*

The room they’re staying in is bigger than Felicity’s last two apartments combined. It's also surprisingly tasteful, at least by Vegas standards, everything done up in neutrals and polished black wood. Felicity takes a lap around the place while Oliver tips the bellhop and brings their bags into the room.

There's a living room and a wet bar and a full dining room and a bedroom with an enormous en suite bathroom. The place is perfect -- amazing, even -- except for one tiny thing.

“There’s only one bed,” Felicity announces, stepping into the bedroom where Oliver is staring out the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Looks like it,” Oliver agrees, turning around to face her. She can't read his expression, which she's not sure is good sign. 

“I thought there would at least be two beds.” Felicity’s voice has gone high and tight, and she can feel herself starting to panic. “You’d think with a room this size, they could have at least sprung for two beds.”

“Is this going to be an issue?” Oliver asks. “Because I think if we called down to Janice and asked for two beds, it might blow our cover.”

“Nope. No issue. I mean, why would there be an issue?” Felicity babbles. “So there’s just one bed and two of us? That is totally and completely fine.”

“Good. Although, you know, I can just take the couch if you don’t want to sleep with me.”

“I definitely want to sleep with you,” she blurts out, and somehow doesn’t immediately drop dead from embarrassment. She closes her eyes and counts backwards silently from three. “That came out wrong. What I meant was --”

“I know what you meant,” Oliver says, putting his hand gently on her shoulder, and turning her to face him. She doesn’t jerk away from him this time, and he doesn’t move his hand. “It’s going to be fine, Felicity,” he tells her, holding her gaze.

His eyes are very blue and his hand is warm against her shoulder and he smells really good and, when Felicity's phone buzzes, she answers it without even looking at the display, her eyes still locked on Oliver's.

"Hello?" she says absently. Oliver's still touching her, and he's standing so close that she can feel the heat radiating off his body, and it's like she can't think straight, like this is some kind of dream, a world where she and Oliver are alone in their hotel room, and he's holding her close and staring deep into her eyes.

But then: "Hello, Felicity," her mother says in her ear, and reality comes crashing down on her.


	2. Chapter 2

“Mom!” Felicity says into the phone. Beside her, Oliver raises his eyebrows, and Felicity takes a step away from him, silently cursing her luck. “Hey. Hi. What’s up?”

"I was just going to ask you the same thing," her mother says and from the tone of her voice Felicity can already tell this conversation probably isn't going anywhere good. 

“Oh. You know, nothing...nothing much,” Felicity says, desperately hoping that the timing of this phone call just a coincidence. After all, she’s only been in town for like an hour, so what are the chances her mother’s somehow found out she’s here? 

Turns out the chances are pretty good, since the next thing her mom says is: “And were you going to find a time during your busy schedule of doing ‘nothing much’ to let your mother know you were in town?”

Felicity winces, slapping a hand against her forehead. Oliver makes a sympathetic face, gesturing towards the living room as he backs out of the bedroom. When he reaches the door, he points at it, his eyebrows raised in question. Felicity nods at him gratefully, and he closes the door behind him.

“Felicity?” her mom prompts. 

“I’m sorry, Mom. The trip was totally last minute, and we just got in. I was completely planning on calling you once we got settled in,” she lies.

“We?” her mom says, even though Felicity knows that if she heard about her being in town, she also must have heard that Oliver was with her. That's the thing about Vegas -- even if what stays here, stays here, news travels fast.

Felicity sighs. “I’m here with Oliver.”

“Oliver Queen?” her mother asks, as though Felicity could be talking about any other Oliver. "Your boss?"

“That’s the one.”

“Hmmm. Interesting.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. She’s still wearing her heels, and she kicks them off, curling her toes against the plush white carpet. “It’s not that interesting, mom. I promise.”

Her mom makes a skeptical noise, which Felicity chooses to ignore. “Well, what plans do the two of you have for tonight?”

“Oh, you know,” Felicity stalls, pacing in front of the window and trying to come up with something. “I was going to show Oliver the sights.”

Her mother snorts. “I think Oliver Queen knows his way around Vegas, Felicity.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Felicity demands. 

“I read the tabloids, sweetheart,” her mom says, and Felicity rolls her eyes again. “So, do you think you could spare an hour in your busy sight-seeing schedule to have dinner with your mother?”

“Mom, I don’t know...” Felicity presses her forehead against the cool, smooth glass of the window and looks down at the city, its familiar neon gaudiness stretching out forever below her.

“Felicity, please," her mom says, sounding exasperated. "When was the last time we saw each other? I know you’re busy with work and your own life, but I miss you, kiddo. I've got a break tonight at eight if you think you might get a chance to stop by."

Felicity sighs and stares out the window. It’s getting dark and the casinos are turning on their lights, everything looking bright and sparkling and unreal. Finally: “Are you still at the Mirage?”

“Caesars,” her mom says. “So, does this mean you’ll come?"

“Yes, Mom, I’ll come,” Felicity says. 

“Excellent. And be sure to bring Oliver with you. I’m dying to meet the man my daughter spends her days with.”

Ugh. Felicity sighs. “Okay. We’ll see you at eight.”

*

“We're having dinner with my mother,” Felicity announces, walking into the living room and dropping down on the couch next to Oliver. “I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay,” Oliver says, leaning forward to grab the remote and mute the television. He’s watching an old black and white movie, something with Cary Grant that she doesn’t immediately recognize. “I can’t wait to meet the mysterious Ms. Smoak.”

Felicity smiles. “You should probably just call her Donna.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Oliver says, smiling back. 

“We’re supposed to meet her at eight o’clock at Caesars Palace. It’s right around the corner, so we’ve got at least an hour before we need to leave.”

“Good.” He settles back, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. He slings his arm around the back of the couch, his fingers brushing against her arm, and she jumps slightly, and he moves his hand. “I thought you were going to stop doing that," he says. 

“Yeah, me too,” Felicity says, feeling like an idiot. What the hell is wrong with her? It’s not like Oliver has never touched her before. He touches her kind of all the time, but it's like ever since their plane touched down, she's been a mess. Which sucks since they're never going to be able to convince anyone they're together if Felicity can't stop flinching every time his fingers brush her arm. So: “Maybe we should practice,” she suggests. 

“Practice what?” Oliver asks.

“Touching each other,” she says. Oliver’s eyebrows shoot up, and Felicity’s face gets hot. “I mean, not _touching each other_ touching each other. Just, like, normal, casual, everyday touching. Just so I can get used to it again and stop reacting like a frightened rabbit every time you come near me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I would like it if that stopped.”

“Okay, so.” Felicity takes a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”

Oliver’s mouth quirks up in a smile as he slides closer to her on the couch, close enough so that his hip bumps against hers, the two of them pressed together from their shoulders to their knees. He’s still got his arm slung over the back of the couch, and he drops his hand again so that it’s resting on her shoulder.

“This okay?” Oliver asks, his chest rumbling against her cheek. 

Felicity nods, and her heart feels like it’s beating way too fast. “Yeah,” she finally manages, and her voice comes out too quiet. “This is good.”

“Good,” Oliver says. He unmutes the television, settling more comfortably against the couch. It takes a couple of seconds before she finally relaxes, curling up next to him, her cheek resting against his side as she presses herself into the crook of his arm, sliding one hand across his stomach to get more comfortable. When she does, he jumps slightly, and she smiles. 

“Looks like we both need some practice with the touching.”

Oliver clears his throat. She can feel his stomach muscles twitch under her hand. “Yeah,” he says, his voice low and a little rough. On the television, Cary’s arguing with a woman in a sharp suit in the middle of a newsroom, and Felicity smiles as she realizes what movie Oliver’s watching.

“ _His Girl Friday_?” Felicity asks.

“I thought it was Wednesday,” he says, and she can tell he’s smiling. He brushes his thumb idly against her arm, his chin resting on the crown of her head, and Felicity thinks her heart might actually be skipping in her chest.

*

The next thing Felicity knows, her phone is buzzing, jolting her awake. She and Oliver are still on the couch, Oliver’s arm still around her shoulder and her face pressed against his chest. Her glasses are askew and it's dark in the room except for the flickering light from the television, and Felicity squints into the darkness, feeling groggy and a little disoriented.

She fumbles for her phone, answering it before she’s fully awake. “Hello?” she says, and she feels Oliver shift, and when she looks up at him, he’s blinking sleepily, looking confused. 

“Felicity?” her mother says, and Felicity glances at the clock. 8:15. Shit! “I thought we were meeting for dinner?”

Shit shit shit. “We are...I -- I mean, Oliver and I...we fell asleep. I’m so, so sorry. We’re on our way now.” She hangs up the phone and practically jumps off the couch.

“What’s wrong?” Oliver asks. He scrubs a hand across his face, his hand rasping against his stubble. He still looks a little out of it. 

“We fell asleep!” Damn it, she can't believe she fell asleep. Or, on second thought, she actually _can_ believe it, since cuddling with Oliver like that was kind of insanely comforting, his body warm and solid and nice-smelling and...augh. _Focus,_ Felicity! She takes a deep breath, trying to get her bearings. "And now we're going to be late to meet my mom, which sucks because it was already probably going to be a disaster, and now it's going to be _more_ of a disaster and --"

"Felicity," Oliver interrupts. He reaches up to her hand, stroking his thumb across the back of her knuckles. "Relax. It'll be fine." 

Felicity nods, even though she doesn't actually believe him. But: "You're right," she says, nodding and then tugging him to his feet. "But we've really gotta go." 

*

For the most part, dinner goes about as well as can be expected. Her mom seems to be on her best behavior, asking them when they got into town and what their plans for the weekend are and filling Felicity in on all latest cocktail-waitress gossip. Oliver doesn’t say much, but he seems to get a kick out of her mom, smiling warmly at her and seemingly legitimately interested in all of her stories. It’s not until their plates are cleared that things start falling apart.

“So,” her mom says to Oliver, as the waiter clears the last of their dishes. “You’re Felicity’s boss.” 

He glances at Felicity, and she shrugs one shoulder, not quite sure where this is going. “I am.” 

“And you’re sleeping with her,” her mom says, and Oliver chokes on his drink.

“Mom!” Felicity gasps. 

Oliver clears his throat and glances over at her. “It’s...complicated,” 

Her mom snorts. “I bet.” 

“ _Mother,_ ” Felicity warns, but her mother ignores her, focusing on Oliver instead.

“My daughter is brilliant, and she’s capable," her mother says, and Felicity is pretty sure this is the most embarrassed she's been in her entire life. "And because of you, Mr. Queen, she’s out of a job.”

“I still have a job,” Felicity interjects, trying to put an end this as quickly as possible.

“Doing what?”

“I’m...we’re…” Felicity shakes her head and takes a deep breath, trying to figure out a way to describe what she does without saying that her current job involves hacking into police databases and helping Oliver save Starling City on a nightly basis. But she comes up completely blank so she just says: “We’re working.”

Her mother rolls her eyes, clearly not buying it. 

“I’m taking good care of her, Ms. Smoak,” Oliver says, giving her mother what he probably hopes is a charming smiling. “I promise.”

“Felicity can take care of herself, Mr. Queen,” her mother says sharply.

Oliver blinks. “I know that. I just meant...whatever you’re worried about, you don’t need to be.”

Her mom laughs. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Ms. Smoak-- ” Oliver starts, but his phone buzzes, and he takes it out of his pocket and glances at the display. From the look on his face, Felicity can tell it’s probably not urgent, but he still pushes away from the table, standing up. “I have to take this,” he says, which Felicity can tell is a total lie. But she’s willing to let it go, since she’d pretty much give anything at this point for this whole conversation between him and her mom to end. “Excuse me.” 

The second Oliver steps away from the table, Felicity turns to her mother and says with false brightness, “So how are you liking Caesars?” 

Her mother narrows her eyes, like she knows Felicity's just trying to change the subject, but then she shrugs, her face softening slightly. “It’s good. The uniforms aren’t my favorite, but the tips are better than at the Mirage. Certainly better than they were at the Luxor.” Felicity feels a brief surge of relief, hoping against hope that her mom’s going to drop it, but then: “And what about you? How are you liking sleeping with your boss?” 

Ugh, seriously? This is _exactly_ why she didn’t want to see her mom while she was here. “I thought we were done with this conversation and had moved on to you,” Felicity says tightly.

“Oh, you don’t care about my job,” her mom says, waving her hand dismissively. 

“That’s not true.” 

“It most certainly is true. My job is the same as it’s been for the last twenty years. What I’d rather talk about is why my genius daughter is wasting her life playing secretary to a frat boy.”

“Oliver’s not a frat boy. I mean, he was, I guess. But he’s not a _frat boy,_ frat boy. At least not anymore.” Felicity shakes her head, forcing herself to get back on track. “And, anyway, I’m not his secretary.”

“Oh right.” Her mother rolls her eyes. “You’re his ‘assistant,’” she says, putting air quotes around the last word, and for the millionth time, Felicity wishes Oliver would have given her a better secret identity. “No matter what you call yourself, Felicity, you can do better.”

“It’s not like that.” 

“Then what is it like, sweetheart? Explain it to me. Because from where I’m sitting? It looks pretty damn simple.” 

Felicity almost laughs. If there’s anything her relationship with Oliver’s not, it’s simple. But of course there’s no way for to actually explain this without revealing that she’s really part of a crime-fighting team lead by a guy in green hood with a bow and arrow and scarily lethal aim, so: “It’s...complicated,” she finally says.

“So he said.”

Felicity just shakes her head, staring down at the white linen tablecloth in front of her. 

“Felicity,” her mom says, and her voice is soft and sincere. “I worry about you. I don’t want you to end up like me, giving up everything for some guy just because the two of you think you’re in love.”

“I don’t...he doesn’t...we’re not in love,” she says, like this is the most absurd thing in the world. Like two months ago, Oliver didn’t stand in front of her and tell her he loved her. Like Felicity hasn’t spent most of the last two years falling stupidly, head-over-heels in love with him. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Please,” her mom scoffs. “I’ve seen the way you two have been looking at each other all night.” 

Which, what? They have not been looking at each other in any way during dinner, certainly not in any weird in love way that her crazy mother could pick up on. But before Felicity gets a chance to say any of this, her mom’s already talking again. 

“But a guy like Oliver Queen?” her mom continues. “He always going to have secrets, Felicity. No matter how much you love him, you’ll never know him. Not really.”

“I do know him,” Felicity protests. Ugh, she knew tonight was going to go like this. She should have never let her guard down during dinner. And probably she should just drop it, play dumb and tell her mother that she knows Oliver’s nothing more than a shallow trust fund kid who doesn't care about her at all, but that's not true, and Felicity's very tired of lying. “Oliver is a good man. A better man than most people could even dream of being.”

Her mom smiles, shaking her head, like Felicity has so much to learn. “Well, even if that’s true -- which I sincerely doubt -- he’s still not good enough for you.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “You don’t think anyone’s good enough for me.”

“That’s because no one is,” her mom tells her, and Felicity can’t help but smile. 

*

“Well, that went well,” Oliver says. They’re on their way out of Caesars, the two of them dodging their way through of drunken gamblers and overly loud tourists.

“I am so, so sorry,” Felicity says, feeling completely mortified. This is exactly why she never talks about her mother, why she didn’t want her to meet Oliver in the first place. “My mom, she can just be a little...protective.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Felicity,” Oliver tells her. “I think it’s nice, actually.”

“Nice?” Felicity scoffs. “Which part of it did you think was nice? When she asked you if we were sleeping together? Oh! Or was it when she implied you were taking advantage of me, your poor, lowly secretary?” 

“She just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

“I know,” Felicity concedes. “But sometimes, I wish she could make sure I’m okay with a little more tact.”

Oliver smiles. “So, what do you want to do now?”

“Honestly? I’d kind of just like to go back to our hotel, change into my pajamas, and get in bed.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, Felicity realizes how lame she probably sounds. She’s in Sin City with Oliver Queen, it’s only 9:30, and all she just wants to put on her jammies and go to sleep. “I mean, if that’s okay with you. I know it’s still early here, but it’s late in Starling City, and I don’t think I’ve quite adjusted to Vegas time.”

“Neither have I. And bed sounds perfect.” He holds out his arm for her to take. “Shall we?”

Felicity nods gratefully, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow, letting him lead her through the press of people on the Strip as they make their way back down the block to their hotel.

*

When they get back to the hotel room, they’re both dragging, Felicity leaning heavily against Oliver as he trudges down the hall to their room. When they get inside, Felicity heads straight for her suitcase, planning to grab her pajamas, duck into the bathroom, and get ready for bed. It’s a good plan, a great plan, even, until Felicity actually starts looking through her suitcase and realizes that she apparently forgot to pack pajamas.

“Oh no,” she mutters, digging through her clothes again, tossing aside skirts and blouses and underwear, and still not finding any freaking pajamas. Fuuuuuuck.

Across the room, Oliver’s sitting on the bed watching her. He’s got his shoes kicked off and he’s started to unbutton his shirt. “Felicity?” he asks. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Felicity lies, shaking her head. She looks through the clothes again, begging for some pajamas to appear. Hell, she’d take anything that could even remotely pass for pajamas, but nope. Unless she wants to wear a skirt or a cocktail dress to bed, she’s out of luck. Awesome.

“Felicity?” Oliver says again.

“It’s just...I forgot my pajamas” She shrugs, trying to play it off, like it’s no big deal. 

“You forgot your pajamas?” Oliver repeats, and the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“Yeah, but. It doesn’t matter.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I can sleep in my regular clothes. It’s fine.”

Oliver shakes his head, getting up and going over to his own suitcase, which is right next to hers. He unzips it, and Felicity glances inside curiously. Everything inside looks neatly pressed and folded, which doesn't surprise her. He rummages through the neat stack of clothes and pulls out a white button down shirt before holding it out to her. 

“Here,” he says. “You can wear this.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. Really. I’m fine. These clothes are totally comfortable,” Felicity gestures down at her silk blouse and pencil skirt. Oliver raises one eyebrow, which Felicity ignores. “Besides, I wasn’t planning on wearing pajamas anyway. Not that I sleep naked or anything. Well, sometimes I do, but not normally. And that definitely wasn’t my plan here. I didn’t _not_ bring pajamas because I was planning on sleeping naked with you, I just...” She takes a deep breath. “I’m fine.” 

“Felicity,” Oliver says patiently. “Please take the shirt.”

Felicity bites her lip. “Don’t you need it?”

He shrugs. “I always bring an extra.” 

“Okay. Thank you,” she says. When she takes the shirt from him, their fingers brush, his skin warm against hers. 

“You are quite welcome,” he says, but neither one of them lets go of the shirt, both of them holding on just a couple of seconds too long.

“Okay,” Felicity finally says, stepping back and taking the shirt with her. “I’m going to change for real this time.”

The shirt Oliver gave her reaches almost to her knees and the sleeves hang down past her fingers. She rolls the sleeves up as best she can, pushing them above her wrists. It feels weirdly intimate, wearing Oliver’s shirt, and she tries not to think too much about it as she brushes her teeth. 

When she comes out of the bathroom, the suite is dark except for the soft yellow glow of one of the table lights by the bed, and Oliver’s standing by the window, looking out at the city stretching out below him. He’s taken off his shirt and changed into a dark green pair of cotton pants, and Felicity just watches him for a couple of seconds until he notices her reflection in the glass. 

“Hey,” he says, turning around and giving her a half-smile.

“Hey.” 

It’s very quiet in the room, neither one of them saying anything. Oliver’s eyes flick down to her bare legs, and she resists the urge to tug on the hem of the shirt. 

“Thanks again,” she finally says. “For the shirt, I mean.”

“Not a problem,” he says, and his voice low and a little rough, and Felicity’s stomach flips. “You ready for bed?”

Felicity nods, and Oliver turns around again to and pull the curtains closed. Felicity can’t stop from staring at him, at the hard lines of his back and at the network of scars that interrupt the smooth planes of his skin.

Being alone with him like this -- the two of them about to get into bed together, Oliver in nothing but a thin pair of pajama pants and Felicity wearing his freaking shirt for crying out loud -- it feels just incredibly intimate and kind of surreal, and Felicity almost loses her nerve right there, seriously considering just running out of the room and sleeping on the couch. 

But then Oliver turns around, still with that half smile, and he looks at her in that way he does sometimes, like he can see right through her, and maybe it should make her more uncomfortable, but instead it actually calms her down a little. Because it’s Oliver, and it’s her, and, all things considered, this is probably doesn’t even rank on a list of surreal things they’ve done together.

She pulls back the covers and she slides into bed, waiting for Oliver to lie down beside her before she reaches over and turns of the light. The curtains are thick, no light from outside getting through, and it's pitch black when Felicity takes off her glasses and sets them on the nightstand. 

The bed is big enough so that they can both be in it without touching at all, and Felicity has almost managed to convince herself that she’s not actually in bed with Oliver Queen, when he shifts, rolling over so that he’s right behind her, his chest to her back.

“Oliver?” Her voice comes out way too quiet, and it feels like there’s a swarm of butterflies setting up shop in her stomach.

“Hmmm?” He says, sounding like he already might be half-asleep, and his chest is warm and solid against her back and she’s wearing his shirt and this whole thing seems like it might not even be real, might just be some insane fantasy of hers, a tactile version of a daydream she’s had more times than she can admit. 

“This shirt smells like you,” she blurts out, and she feels him shift behind her. “I mean, not that I know what you smell like. Or, well, I do, I guess? But in a totally normal, totally platonic way. Not in a creepy, stalkery, I-want-to-smell-you way. Oh, and, hey,” she says. “Did you ever notice that I babble when I’m nervous?” 

He huffs out a laugh, his breath warm against her neck. “No, I’d not noticed that,” he says, and she can tell that he’s smiling. 

Neither one of them say anything for a couple of minutes, and Felicity wills herself to relax, but then Oliver shifts again, moving so that his hand is resting lightly on her hip, and her breath hitches in her throat.

“Is this okay?” he asks. She can feel his chest rumble when he talks.

“Yes,” she says, and she’s never meant anything more in her life. “It’s perfect.” She closes her eyes and, after a couple of seconds, she thinks she feels him press a featherlight kiss against her temple, his lips barely brushing her skin. 

“Goodnight, Felicity,” he says, so low she almost doesn’t hear. 

“Goodnight, Oliver,” she whispers back. 

It's not long before she feels him fall asleep behind her, his body relaxing and his breathing turning deep and even. His hand is still warm against her hip and his breath is hot against her neck, and she just...She loves him _so much_.

It takes her a very long time to fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

When Felicity wakes up, she’s immediately aware of four things: 1) her head is on Oliver’s bare chest, 2) her leg is hitched up around his waist, 3) his hand is resting on her hip, and 4) she really, really has to pee. 

For a couple of minutes, she ignores the fourth thing, focusing instead on the other three. Oliver’s hand is warm and heavy through the thin fabric of her shirt -- or, well, not her shirt, technically; Oliver’s shirt -- and he feels really good underneath her. Even better than she imagined, which, it’s early enough for her to admit to herself that she has imagined waking up in very similar scenarios. Many, many times. And, sure, usually in those scenarios, they’re both a little bit more naked, but hey, Felicity’s not complaining. 

She lets herself bask for just a couple of minutes, but she really does need to use the bathroom, so she finally starts to get up, trying to figure out a way to move without waking Oliver. She’s ends up pressing one hand gently against his chest, trying to leverage herself up gracefully. She’s perched somewhat precariously over him when she finally glances down at him, and when she does, Oliver’s watching her through half-lidded eyes. 

“Good morning,” he says. One corner of his mouth is turned up in a soft half-smile, and she wonders how long he’s been awake, why he didn’t roll her off of him when he first woke up, why he stayed right where he was, letting her sprawl all over him and probably drool all over his chest.

“Morning,” Felicity says back. Her hand is still braced against his chest, all warm smooth skin and hard muscle, and she thinks for what must be the thousandth time that maybe this whole let's-go-to-Vegas thing wasn’t the smartest idea she's ever had.

“Sleep well?” Oliver asks. His hair is sticking up in a million directions and his hand is on her hip, and her heart is just racing away in her chest.

Felicity swallows hard and nods, trying to be casual, hoping that he can’t actually feel how hard her heart is pounding. “Surprisingly, yes.”

“Surprisingly?” His smile falters, and he tilts his head to the side, his brow furrowed, looking at her like he’s searching her face for signs of chronic insomnia. “Do you normally not sleep well?”

“Oh, no.” Felicity waves her free hand dismissively. She’s still got her other hand pressed against his chest. “I just meant it was surprising because you’re so hard.” 

Oliver’s eyebrows shoot up, and oh my god. What the hell is wrong with her? 

“Your chest, I mean,” Felicity clarifies, pressing her fingertips even harder against said chest. “Your _chest_ is hard. Because of all of the, you know…the muscles that you have. I wouldn’t know if…if other parts of you are hard, obviously. Just…” she trails off, closing her eyes shut tight and shaking her head. She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes. “Sorry. I’m not always very coherent first thing in the morning.”

Oliver smiles, and Felicity slides her leg across his hips. When she does, he sucks in a breath, his fingers tensing on her hip. And, um, wow. Okay. Apparently other parts of him are _also_ hard. Very hard. Felicity’s eyes go wide, and she freezes, her whole body going stock still. When she glances down at him, Oliver’s eyes have gone dark and his gaze flickers down to her mouth. Felicity’s skin suddenly feels hot and too tight. 

She’s still half-leaning on his chest, kind of kneeling over him, and her hair’s falling around her face, and he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers trailing down her neck, and a warm knot of tension pools deep in her belly. 

“Felicity,” he says, and the tone of his voice makes her stomach flip. 

His hand is still on the crook of her neck, and he’s still watching her with that look on his face, and Felicity would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about him like this a million times. Because, to be completely honest, most of her fantasies involve Oliver Queen touching her like he is, looking at her like he is right now, saying her name like he just said it. 

And part of her -- a ridiculously huge part of her, actually -- wants to just go with it, wants to just lean down, close the couple inches of space between them, and kiss him. Consequences be damned. But the problem is, Felicity’s never been a consequences-be-damned kind of girl. She’s always been more of a let’s-think-about-the-consequences-at-length-and-then-make-what-is-hopefully-not-a-terrible-decision kind of girl. Which, at this particular moment, sucks, since kissing Oliver is definitely and assuredly a terrible decision.

Mostly because she is totally over-the-top, head-over-heels in love with him. But also because she’s pretty sure he doesn’t feel the same way about her that she does about him. She knows he cares about her, of course, maybe even loves her, in his own stoic, brooding, closed-off way. But he's not _in love_ with her, she knows. And she’s not sure she could take just being another notch on Oliver Queen’s incredibly long bedpost. 

So: “I really have to pee,” Felicity blurts out, and Oliver blinks, his grip on her hip loosening. She takes advantage of this and pushes herself off of him as quickly as she can, swinging her leg over his body and hoping like hell she didn’t just flash him. 

She’s halfway across the room before she chances a quick glance back at him, and even without her glasses she can see every line and ripple and scar on his completely amazing chest, and her stomach does that flipping thing again. Felicity forces herself not to turn back, to keep moving away from Oliver and the bed, ducking into the bathroom and closing the door firmly behind her. 

Because she’s a total coward, she spends a long time in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and then washing her face, and then deciding she might as well just go ahead and take a shower while she’s in there. 

Felicity’s got a head full of shampoo when Oliver knocks on the door, saying something she can’t make out. 

“What?” Felicity calls, hopefully loud enough that he should be able to hear her over the shower. 

For a second, Oliver doesn’t respond, and Felicity ducks her head out of the shower, about to call out to him again, when suddenly the door’s swinging open, and Oliver’s standing there in the open doorway. “I said: do you want me to order breakfast?”

“Um,” Felicity says, clutching the shower curtain tight against her chest and blinking water out of her eyes. Even though Oliver’s eyes stay trained on her face, she feels very, very naked. Which makes sense, actually, because she is very, very naked. But still. She’s not sure she’s ever felt this naked in her life. “Huh?”

“Breakfast?” Oliver prompts, his eyebrow quirking up in question.

“Oh, uh...um,” Felicity says, eloquent as always. She shakes her head, trying to clear it, her wet hair sending a few droplets of sudsy water onto the white marble floor. “Yes. Breakfast would be good.” 

“Good,” Oliver says, and before he turns away and closes the door, Felicity swears she sees him smile. 

*

By the time Felicity finishes her shower and gets dressed and does the hair and make-up thing, breakfast has been delivered to their room. Oliver’s still just wearing those thin green pajama pants, but Felicity feels dressed enough for both of them. Besides, it’s not that different from what he normally wears when they’re in the foundry; at least these pants aren’t skin-tight leather, so. Thank god for small favors.

They eat in mostly companionable silence, Felicity making her way through two cups of hot chocolate, a short stack of pancakes, a side of bacon, and a yogurt-and-granola parfait thing, while Oliver sips black coffee and picks from a fruit plate.

Their plan for the day is to hit up a few casinos on the Strip, mostly just to kill time until it’s time for the reunion. Felicity figures they’ll leave right after they eat, but instead, Oliver pulls a deck of cards out from beside his plate, taking them out of the box and looking up at Felicity with his eyebrow quirked. 

“What are those for?” Felicity asks, stealing a grape off his plate and popping it into her mouth.

“Well, Felicity,” he says, his lips curling up at the corners as he pushes their plates off to the side. “I want you to teach me to count cards.”

“You want me to do what now?” she asks. Because, well, Oliver’s good at a lot of things -- brooding, intimidating, shooting a variety of arrows at a variety of targets -- but she’s seen his transcripts; numbers are definitely not his strong suit.

“We’re in Vegas.” He shrugs, and starts shuffling the cards. “And we’ve got an entire day of gambling ahead of us, and I guess I just thought I might as well learn a skill while I’m here.”

“You want to learn a skill while we’re in Vegas?” Felicity says, doubtful.

“Yeah, why not?” He shrugs again, handing her the cards.

“Because people come to Vegas to make get drunk and make bad decisions, not to learn new skills?” she says, but he just blinks at her. She sighs. “Besides, it can take a while to pick up -- counting cards, I mean, not getting drunk and making bad decisions -- and there’s probably more enjoyable things we could spend our day doing than learning math-based card skills.”

“Is this about that D in 10th grade Algebra?” he asks, and Felicity can’t help but laugh. He’s looking at her with this completely hopeful expression that she almost can’t believe she’s going to fall for, but what the hell. They do have an entire day to kill, and teaching Oliver Queen how to run the tables at the Bellagio could be fun.

So: “Okay,” she agrees, shuffling the cards and starting to deal. “Let’s do it.”

*

Oliver actually gets the basics of card counting down pretty quickly. Felicity sticks with Blackjack because it’s the simplest, and Oliver keeps up with the running count fairly easily. Things get a little dicey when he tries to convert to the true count, and as soon as Felicity talks numbers and formulas, his eyes start to glaze over, but he sticks with it. 

They spend almost two hours practicing before Oliver gets bored with the lesson and tells her he wants to give the real thing a go. Felicity’s not sure he’s ready, but she figures they might as well give it a shot.

They start at one of the low-stakes tables, Felicity playing the first couple of hands alone so that Oliver can get the rhythm of the dealer down before he tries his hand at it. Oliver stands behind her, a solid, steady presence, watching her closely as she bets and hits and stays. 

Before too long, Felicity’s already up a couple hundred dollars, and the dealer’s starting to look a little suspicious of her, so she taps out while the count is still high and lets Oliver give it a try. 

The first hand goes okay, Oliver flicking a quick glance at the deck before deciding to stay on his King-Six. He wins the hand, but after that, things go downhill fast. 

For someone who spends most of his time being stealth and acting on instinct, Oliver is an incredibly obvious card-counter. He looks too long at the cards on the table, and Felicity can practically see him doing the math in his head, his brow furrowed as he tries to work out the odds. On the plus side, he’s bad enough that they don’t draw any real attention, even if watching him hit on Ace-Nine and split his tens is enough to make Felicity’s soul hurt. 

But he looks like he’s having fun, and they’re sticking to the low-stakes tables, so. Felicity guesses she’ll suffer through it. 

And it definitely doesn’t hurt that, after every hand he wins, he glances back at her with this small, secret smile, one that makes her stomach fill with butterflies and her cheeks feel warm. 

*

By the time they finally call it quits, they’ve made it all the way down to Mandalay Bay and they’re actually up two hundred dollars (due in equal part to Felicity’s card-counting and Oliver’s blind luck). It’s still a few hours until the reunion, but they still need to get back to their hotel and get ready, so they cash out their chips and head back down the Strip. 

On their walk back to the Bellagio, Oliver’s quieter than normal, which, honestly, is definitely saying something, considering that he’s not exactly the chattiest person she’s ever known. 

“You okay?” she finally asks, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. 

“Yeah, I am,” he says, nodding his head. “I guess...I guess I just forgot what it was like.” He bumps his shoulder against hers, and Felicity leans into him before she can stop herself.

“Forgot what what was like?” Felicity asks, bumping him back.

“Forgot what it was like to have a normal day. No crisis to solve, no bad guys to take down. It’s been...fun.” He says the last word like it’s strange, like he doesn’t remember the last time he actually had fun. “Thank you, Felicity.” 

“You’re welcome, Oliver,” she says back, and when she looks up at him, he’s smiling like he means it, and Felicity’s heart actually skips in her chest. 

*

When they get up to their room, she lets him take the shower first, giving herself a chance to figure out what she’s going to wear to the reunion. 

Felicity brought four different dresses to wear to the reunion (which, now that she thinks about it, maybe explains how she managed to forget her pajamas), and she lays them all out on the bed, studying them critically as she tries to decide which would be best. 

She’s still just standing there when Oliver comes out of the bathroom, a towel tied low around his hips and another draped around his neck.

“Everything okay?” he asks, looking at the dresses on the bed then back to her. 

“Just trying to make a decision,” she tells him vaguely, biting her lip as she runs her hand along the front of the black silk dress. It’s a nice dress, but she’s worried it’s a little...blah, which won’t do at all. The red dress, on the other hand, is definitely _not_ blah, but it’s possibly a little too desperate-looking, which might actually be worse. Which means she'll probably either go with the blue or the gold, both of which have their merits.

“What do you think?” she finally asks Oliver, not actually expecting him to answer. After all, it’s not like he’s has even shown any indication at all that he pays attention to anything she wears.

So it surprises her when he says decisively, “The blue one.”

“Oh.” She looks over at him and then back at the dresses, tilting her head as she studies them. “Really? Why?”

“You look good in blue,” he says easily, like he’s actually thought about what color looks best on her. “Not that you don’t look good in everything, but…” he shrugs and starts scrubbing the towel over his head, making his hair stand up in little spikes. “I like the blue the best.” 

“Oh, uh, okay, then,” Felicity stammers, nodding her head once. “Blue it is.” 

“Good,” he says, smiling at her like he means it. His chest is still a little wet from the shower, and Felicity tries not to stare as a drop of water runs down his stomach, catching in the thin trail of hair that disappears below the towel. Felicity keeps her eyes trained on his face, trying not to think about how his chest felt under her hand this morning, the way his body felt pressed up against hers. “Felicity?”

“Uh,” Felicity says, shaking her head and blinking, blinking, blinking. _Get in the game, Smoak,_ she tells herself. So Oliver has noticed what she wears? So he's got an actual opinion on what color looks best on her? That doesn’t mean anything. “Right. Yes. The blue one. Thank you,” she babbles, grabbing up the dress and ducking around him and into the bathroom. 

It’s still warm and humid in the bathroom, the smell of Oliver’s cologne making her feel a little dizzy. She hangs the blue dress on the back of the door and turns on the shower, trying not to think about Oliver being in here just minutes before, all naked and wet and...Felicity clears her throat, shaking her head and trying to clear it. 

*

Felicity blowdries her hair and does her make-up and puts in her contacts before stepping into the dress, pulling the straps up over her shoulders and then reaching around to try to get the zipper. She manages to get it up about half an inch before it sticks, and no amount of tugging and pulling can get it to budge. Finally, she gives up, opening up the bathroom door and calling out to Oliver for help.

“Everything okay?” he asks. He’s dressed in a dark grey suit with a light blue shirt and he's got a navy blue tie looped loose around his neck.

“My zipper’s stuck,” she tells him, one arm pressed against her chest as she holds her dress up. 

He smiles at that, and Felicity thinks she’s probably seen him smile more over the past 24 hours than she has in the entire time she’s known him. She tries not to think about what that might mean. “Turn around,” he tells her, and Felicity obeys, turning so that he can reach the back of her dress. 

At first, he doesn’t touch her, and Felicity resists the urge to look over her shoulder at him. Finally, after a couple of seconds, she feels him start working the zipper, wiggling it back and forth, hard enough that she thinks he might break it. He makes a frustrated noise and then he’s kneeling down behind her, his breath puffing warm against the small of her back. Felicity freezes, closing her eyes and biting down hard on her lower lip, resisting the urge to start talking, to ask him what he's doing. Oliver pulls on the zipper again, his fingers brushing up against her bare skin, and she jumps before she can stop herself. 

Oliver doesn’t say anything about it this time, doesn’t tease her about flinching, but he puts one hand on her hip, holding her right where she is. It’s very quiet in the bathroom, just the sounds of their breathing, and Felicity wonders if her heart is beating loud enough for him to hear it. There’s a pleasant knot of tension pooling low in her belly, and Felicity closes her eyes and counts backwards from three, trying to get her bearings. After a couple of beats, he starts tugging on the zipper again, and whatever he does works, because he’s suddenly standing up behind her, pulling the zipper up as he goes. His chest is pressed against her back and he slides his hands over so they're resting on her shoulders. 

“Thank you,” she manages, knowing that she should move away from him, but not quite being able to actually do it. His hands are still on her shoulders, and she can feel the callouses on his fingers from where he holds the string on his bow. When he brushes his thumbs lightly over her skin, she can’t stop the shiver that runs through her body. Okay, she really, _really_ needs to move away from him or she’s going to do something incredibly dumb. 

“My pleasure,” he says, and his voice is low and a little rough, but it’s enough to make Felicity snap out of it, and she takes a step away from him, putting some distance between them. 

She goes over to the vanity, fidgeting with her earrings and taking a couple of deep breaths. After just a couple of seconds, Oliver steps up beside her, and Felicity glances over at him, watching as he ties his tie.

“Something interesting?” he asks, one eyebrow raised in question. 

“I just never learned how to tie a tie.” She turns and leans her hip against the counter, watching him. “It’s kind of fascinating.” 

“Seriously?” he says, glancing at her in the mirror. 

Felicity shrugs. “My dad left when I was a kid, and it’s not like I’ve dated a lot of business execs or anything, so. Not a lot of opportunities presented themselves.” 

Oliver glances at her again and then starts pulling at the knot in his tie, unraveling it so that it’s hanging loose around his neck again. “Come here,” he says, and Felicity’s stomach flips.

She steps over to him and he walks her through the steps of tying what he tells her is a windsor knot, modeling it for her, telling her which side to cross over which and when to finally draw it tight. 

“Got it?” he asks, reaching up and tugging the knot loose. 

She nods, stepping close to him and taking each end of the tie in her hands. She pulls until one side is longer than the other, trying to ignore how close they’re standing, close enough that she can feel his breath against her face, close enough that if she just took another half a step closer, her lips would brush against his.

He smells nice, like toothpaste and aftershave, and Felicity forces herself to focus on what she’s doing, concentrating on following the steps he just showed her. It takes her a few tries, but she finally gets it, crossing the the two ends over each other and then pulling the wide end of the tie through the loop and then tightening the knot, adjusting it against his collar. When she does, her knuckles brush against his throat, and she’s close enough to him that she can hear his breath catch in his throat. 

“Good?” she asks, tilting her head up to look at him. She expects for him to be looking in the mirror, making sure the knot looks good, but instead, he’s staring down at her, his eyes dark and his lips parted slightly.

“Felicity,” he breathes out, and it’s not fair, how he can do that, say her name like he does, like there are all of these meanings behind it, like he’s trying to tell her something she knows he’ll never actually say. 

“We should go,” she says, and her voice comes out much lower than she means for it to, so quiet that it’s practically a whisper. “We don’t want to be late.”

Oliver blinks, taking a step away from her. Her whole body feels colder and sort of empty, which is an absurd thing to think, but well. There it is. 

“Of course,” he says, but his eyes are dark and his voice is rough, and there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw, and Felicity wonders if there's any possible way she's going to make it through this night without doing something she regrets.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time the Town Car pulls up to the entrance to the Centennial High School Gym for the reunion, Felicity’s decided this is, by far, the worst idea she’s ever had. Which is saying something, considering her previous ideas have included confronting a homicidal jewel thief, infiltrating an underground casino, and blowing up a warehouse containing some of the most advanced tech on the market. 

“Are you okay?” Oliver asks, and he sounds legitimately concerned, which is incredibly embarrassing. Felicity has faced murderers and madmen and all manner of criminal masterminds, and yet here she is, about to have a panic attack at the sight of her old high school. 

Felicity nods. “Yeah,” she says, but her voice cracks a little. "I'm fine."

Oliver bumps his shoulder against hers. She relaxes into his side, grateful that he’s there. “At least you’re not flinching when I touch you,” he says lightly. “That’s something.”

“I think sleeping with you really helped me relax,” she says without thinking, and then she groans, dropping her head and covering her eyes with one hand. 

Beside her, Oliver makes a sound she thinks might be a laugh, and then he reaches up and pulls her hand away from her face. He doesn’t let go, intertwining their fingers so they’re holding hands and brushing his thumb over the back of her knuckles in a gentle, soothing motion.

“Felicity,” he says, and he waits until she looks up at him. “It’s going to be okay. It might even be fun.” 

She shoots him a dark look, and he smiles.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says again, giving her hand a quick squeeze. Felicity just nods, hoping he’s right, but she has a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

*

The Centennial High School gymnasium is done up with streamers and balloons, glittered-covered banners strung up over every doorway. It looks like senior prom. 

They check in at the little folding table near the front door, and Felicity doesn’t recognize the guy manning the table, which is actually kind of a relief. She’s going to need a few minutes before she’s ready to mingle and reminisce. 

“So,” Oliver says. He’s still holding her hand in his, which is definitely nice, but Felicity’s a little worried about how clammy and sweaty her palm probably is at this point. “What now?”

“Well,” Felicity says, looking around the gym. There’s a dance floor flanked by a dozen tables and, over in the far corner, next to entrance to the locker rooms, a fully stocked bar. There’s also a bunch of people that she only vaguely recognizes, people who look like slightly puffier, balder versions of people she hated ten years ago. “We could mingle, or we could dance, or we could drink.” 

Oliver nods thoughtfully, but she doesn't give him a chance to answer.

“I vote for the last one," she says, pulling him behind her as she makes a beeline the bar. 

*

They spend the next half hour sitting at the bar, Felicity knocking back three glasses of terrible red wine and trying to avoid eye contact with anyone who isn’t Oliver. 

“Are we just going to hide out here all night?” Oliver finally asks.

“We’re not hiding out,” Felicity lies, finishing her drink and leaning over the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention again.

“Good,” Oliver says. He reaches over, plucking the glass out of her hand, and spinning her around so that they’re facing the rest of the room. “Then let’s dance.”

Her head feels a little fuzzy from the wine, and she’s kind pleasantly buzzed, so they're halfway across the room before he realizes what's happening, and she pulls back once she registers what Oliver just said. That he is actually suggesting that they dance. Together.

“Nuh-uh, nope,” she tells him, stopping short and tugging back on his hand. She knows she’s not actually strong enough to make him stop, but he does anyway, turning around so that they’re face-to-face. “No way. Not happening.”

“Felicity,” Oliver sighs, exasperated. “I have left Starling City undefended and have flown across the country with you to come to this thing. We are not going to spend the entire night moping in the corner.”

“Starling City’s not undefended,” she protests. “Diggle and Roy are there. And besides, I thought you liked moping in corners.”

“Felicity,” he says again, arching one eyebrow. “You said we had three choices: dance, mingle, or drink. You have spent the last half hour drinking, so. Now we’re down to dance or mingle. Your choice.”

Felicity considers that for a second, biting her lip and looking around, hoping to see someone she wouldn’t mind mingling with. She comes up empty so: “Ugh, fine,” she says. “But we need to wait for the next song. I am _not_ dancing to Nickelback.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Deal.”

“So,” Felicity says, as they stand near the edge of the dancefloor, waiting for the song to change. “I should probably warn you: I am a terrible dancer. Like, two left feet, will probably stomp all over your toes, terrible dancer. I have no moves.”

“I’ve seen you dance,” he reminds her. “With Barry, at the party for my mother. You seemed to know what you were doing.”

“Well, that was more swaying than dancing,” she says. “Besides, I, uh...I didn’t realize you were watching.”

“I was,” he says, his voice low and a little rough, his tone making her stomach flip.

The Nickelback song finally ends, and some ridiculous R&B song starts up, slow and sultry. Oliver looks over at her, eyebrows raised and one hand extended. Felicity takes it, rolling her eyes at him even as she gets this strange, giddy feeling in her stomach. 

When they get out to the dance floor, Oliver pulls her towards him, pressing one hand lightly against the small of her back, his other hand clasped with hers up against his chest. Felicity swallows hard as she drapes her arm around his shoulder, her hand resting against the nape of his neck.

The song that’s playing is slow enough that little in the way of movement is required, but even if it was, she can tell Oliver knows what he’s doing. He keeps a steady, gentle pressure on the small of her back, and his body is confident and relaxed against hers.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a dancer,” Felicity tells him, and he raises his eyebrows. “Not that I didn’t think you could dance. I mean, I’ve seen you move, you’re obviously really good at it. I mean," she shakes her head. "I’ve seen how you move your body and...you know what? I’m just going to stop talking now.”

Oliver laughs, low and rich. “My mother made me take ballroom dancing lessons when I was a kid,” he tells her. “She had this five-year plan to try to ensure that by the time I was invited to all of the galas and cotillions, I could dance like a gentleman.”

“And how long did that last?” 

“Six weeks,” he tells her, and she laughs, leaning into him, letting her cheek rest against his shoulder. She can feel his heartbeat beneath her ear, steady and reassuring, and his palm is warm against her back, and he is the only person in the entire room that she cares about at all. All around them, people are talking and laughing, but for the life of her, Felicity can’t remember why she wanted to come to this thing in the first place, let alone drag Oliver with her to see what a complete loser she once was.

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at this,” she tells him. 

“You’re doing fine,” he tells her, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “Not a single toe stepped on.”

“No,” she says, staring very hard at the knot of his tie. “I mean...I'm sorry I’m so bad at all of this. Mingling. Talking. Being a person. You came all the way out here just to help me, and I’m being a total weirdo, drinking in the corner and not interacting with anybody. You probably think I was some kind of friendless pariah in high school. Which I wasn’t, by the way. I had friends. Or, well, I had _a_ friend. But I guess she didn’t come tonight. Obviously because she’s much smarter than I am, and she probably realized what a disaster this would be, and I just...I’m sorry.”

“Felicity,” Oliver says softly, waiting until she looks at him before he says anything else. The corners of his mouth are turned up in a smile and his eyes are very, very blue. “Thank you for inviting me. I’m having a very good time.” 

Felicity smiles up at him, her chin resting against his chest, and as he looks down at her, his eyes flick down to her mouth. When he glances back up, his eyes have gone dark, and Felicity realizes they’re not actually dancing anymore, the two of them just holding each other in the middle of the dance floor. The song they've been dancing to fades out, transitioning into some Avril Lavigne pop-punk monstrosity, but they don't move, staying right where they are, their bodies pressed together and Felicity's heart suddenly feels like it's not beating right, fluttering wildly in her chest.

When Oliver’s phone buzzes, she jumps away from him, stepping backwards so fast she almost trips on her own feet. 

Oliver reaches out and steadies her with one hand and takes his phone out of his pocket with the other, checking the display. Felicity can tell from the way his expression changes that whoever’s calling, it’s important.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“It’s Thea,” he says, sounding a little stunned. 

No one’s heard from Thea since the night of the showdown with Slade. Oliver and Roy have both called her more times than they can count -- dozens of times, hundreds, even -- and Felicity has spent the past two months trying to track her credit cards or find any trace of her movements online, but they’ve all come up empty. 

“Answer it!” Felicity tells him. 

He glances at her, this thumb poised over the screen, like he’s actually thinking of not answering. “You sure?” 

Felicity rolls her eyes, and slaps him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Of course I’m sure! Talk to your sister, Oliver.”

He smiles at her gratefully and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze and then he’s gone, the phone held up to his ear as he ducks out of the gym. 

Felicity just stands where she is for a couple of seconds, trying to decide what to do. She considers heading over to the bar, but her head still feels a little fuzzy either from the dancing or the wine, and she’s not sure more alcohol is the best plan. So she ends up just sitting at an empty table on the edge of the dance floor, pulling out her phone and opening the app that lets her log into her computers back at the foundry. 

She’s still just sitting there, idly monitoring the police scanner, when she hears her name. She glances up and realizes it’s Janice from the hotel, standing with a couple of other women she vaguely recognizes as the same girls who used to spend most of their days mocking her clothes and her hair and, well, everything about her, really. 

But, hey, that was a long time ago, right? Things are different now. So, Felicity tucks her phone back into her purse and she’s about to say something to them, something snappy and breezy, when Janice says, “They’d booked two rooms. Like, they tried to play it off, but, please. It’s so obvious that they’re not _actually_ together. Clearly, Oliver Queen is just doing her a favor or something.”

“Why would Oliver Queen be doing Felicity Smoak a favor?” one of the women says, her voice dripping with disdain. Felicity recognizes her as one of the girls who used to try to cheat off her in Calculus -- Ashley or Amber or something like that. 

“Probably because she’s his assistant,” the third woman pipes up. Felicity can’t see her face, so she doesn’t know who she is, but she decides that she hates her anyway. 

“You’re joking,” Janice says.

“Nope,” the no-face woman says, sounding smug. “I was in Starling City last month on business, and they were all over the papers there. She is definitely his assistant.”

Janice laughs. “When they checked in, Oliver Queen said that they only had two rooms because his _assistant_ made a mistake.” 

The women laugh, and Felicity’s face gets hot. And, ugh, why do they all keep saying his whole name like that? It’s _Oliver Queen this_ and _Oliver Queen_ that. Like he’s some kind of exotic species of human, the two-name socialite or something.

“I thought she was supposed to be some kind of genius,” Ashley-or-Amber scoffs. “You’re telling me she’s just a _secretary_? How completely and utterly pathetic.” 

Felicity stands up then, too fast, her chair scraping loudly against the wood floor of the gym. The women turn around, their eyebrows raised when they see her there.

“Oh, Felicity,” Janice says. “I’m sorry, we totally didn’t see you.” She’s smiling, a cruel, high school smile, cold and mocking, and Felicity just wants to get out of here. But when she turns around, Oliver’s there, solid and steady, having her back like he always does.

“Hey,” he says, and then he’s pulling her against him, kissing her before Felicity really registers what’s happening. 

He kisses her hard and insistent, all tongue and teeth, and Felicity opens her mouth under his without even thinking about it, stunned and confused and her body buzzing with so much lust, she can’t think straight. He's got one hand on her hip, and he slides his other hand to the back of her head so that it’s tangled in her hair, and he’s holding her against him and she can feel the hardness of his body pressed against hers. 

She’s fantasized this so many times over the past two years, but the truth of it is, it’s nothing like she’d imagined; it’s too rough and too hard and she can tell Oliver’s only half-paying attention to her, that he’s doing it mostly for show, giving the people the Oliver Queen they want to see. 

Felicity’s heart is stuttering in her chest, and she hears someone -- Janice, probably, but maybe it’s Ashley-or-Amber -- scoff, this disbelieving half-laugh, and it’s enough to make Felicity come to her senses. 

She pulls away, and when she does, Oliver is watching her with dark eyes, his face blank and unreadable. 

Felicity stares back at him for a long second, her heart pounding in her ears. His face doesn’t change, and the women are still staring at them, mouths agape, and Felicity just turns on her heel and walks away. 

Oliver doesn’t try to stop her.

*

When Oliver finally finds her, Felicity is sitting on the bleachers, staring down at the blank, green expanse of the football field. She’s spent the better part of the past twenty minutes crying, and her eyes burn under her contacts. She’s grateful it’s dark out here, since she probably looks like a mess, smeared mascara and red, puffy eyes.

“Hey,” he says, clearing his throat and looking down at his feet. 

Felicity glances up at him, squinting a little into the darkness. “Hey,” she says back. He doesn’t move and Felicity takes pity on him, nodding her head for him to sit next to her. 

When he does, he leaves enough space for another entire person to sit between them, and Felicity can’t believe what a disaster this whole night has become. 

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet.

Felicity nods, chewing on her lower lip and willing herself not to start crying again. 

It’s a cool night, the metal of the bleachers cold against the back of her legs, and she crosses her arms, nodding and not looking at him. Out of the corner of her eye, she she’s him shrug off his jacket, and then he’s sliding over, draping his jacket around her shoulders, resting his chin against the crown of her head and keeping one arm around her. 

“How’s Thea?” she asks, before Oliver can say anything else.

Oliver hesitates for just a second and then says, “She’s okay, I think. She didn’t really say much.” 

“Is she back in Starling City?”

He nods, the stubble on his chin rasping against her hair. “Yeah. We’re, uh, we’re supposed to meet up next week. Talk about some things.”

“Good,” Felicity says, pulling back a little, just enough to look up at him. “That’s really good, Oliver.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and Felicity has an irrational surge of hope that they’re just going to leave it at that, that he’s not going to mention what happened back in the gym. But then: “Felicity, I’m --” he says, his voice quiet and serious.

“Don’t,” she cuts him off, because if he apologizes to her right now, Felicity doesn’t think she’ll ever forgive him. “It’s my fault, Oliver. Not yours. This whole thing was my idea, and obviously it was an incredibly, _incredibly_ stupid one. Quite possibly the stupidest plan I’ve ever had, actually.” 

“Well, I don’t know about that, ” he says, with forced lightness. "There was that thing with the Dollmaker, and the time with Tockman, and --" 

“I’m in love with you,” Felicity blurts out, and he freezes, his mouth still half-open. She takes his silence as a cue to keep going, which is good since she’s not sure she could stop talking if she tried, the words just pouring out of her. “And I know that...that you don’t feel the same way, that what you said that day in the mansion was just a ploy, a way to get to Slade, and I get that, Oliver. I do. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t feel what I feel, and I just...I’m not sure how much more I can take. Especially if you keep touching me like you touch me and looking at me like you look at me -- and _definitely_ not if you keep kissing me like you just kissed me -- and then sleeping with Laurel or Sara or Isabel or Helena...And I just. I needed you to know that.”

For a long moment, Oliver doesn’t respond, and Felicity feels a dull ache settle in her chest, and she vaguely wonders if this is what is feels like, having your heart actually break. Oliver’s jacket sits heavy on her shoulders, and she’s about to shrug it off, when he’s suddenly reaching up to cup his hand against her cheek.

When he kisses her, it’s different than it was before, gentle and almost tentative, his hand cupping her cheek and his lips soft against hers. When he traces his tongue along her lower lip, she opens her mouth under his, and she’s pretty sure he smiles, his lips curving against her mouth as she kisses him back. He kisses her like it’s the first time, like he’s memorizing the feel of her mouth, the taste of her, and it’s so much more than Felicity ever imagined it could be.

“Um,” she says when he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against hers, his breath warm and sweet against her lips. Her heart is racing and her skin feels too tight and she can smell Oliver’s cologne, woodsy and slightly citrusy and achingly familiar. 

“It wasn’t just a ploy to capture Slade,” Oliver tells her, his voice low and serious. He’s still cupping her face with his hand, and he strokes his thumb along the curve of her cheekbone. “That was part of it, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. I meant what I said.” 

“Oh,” is all Felicity says. She’s having trouble catching her breath.

“But if we’re together, you’re a target, and I can’t have that.” 

Ugh, this again. Felicity rolls her eyes, pulling away from him. “I’m already a target,” she tells him, exasperated. “How many bad guys have captured me just in the last year?”

“I know,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face, the callouses on his fingers rasping against the stubble on his cheeks. “But it’s different…”

“ _How_ is it different?” she demands.

Oliver runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “Because if the choice is between saving you and saving every other person in Starling City? I would choose you, Felicity. Every time."

Oh. Well. That’s actually the most amazing thing anyone has ever said to her. But it’s also not enough that she’s going to let him off the hook. 

“Oliver, I know you’re just trying to protect me and I know your guilt issues probably have guilt issues, but you’ve got to be able to trust that I can handle this. That if this does put me in more danger -- and I’m _not_ saying that it does -- then that’s my choice to make.” 

Oliver doesn’t respond to that, just takes a deep breath and then exhales heavily through his nose in this way that means he is trying very hard to not argue with her. He nods to himself a couple of times, seeming to come to a decision. He gets to his feet, reaching down to hold his hand out for her. “You want to get out of here?” 

“More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life,” Felicity says immediately, and Oliver smiles. 

*

When they get back to their room, Oliver kisses her before they're all the way inside, pressing Felicity back against the door so that it clicks shut behind her. 

He pushes his jacket off her shoulders and she starts working on his tie, her fingers pulling at the knot she worked so hard on this morning. They stumble down the hallway together, Oliver walking backwards, the two of them somehow managing to make it all the way back to the bedroom without tripping over either each other or their discarded clothing. 

By the time they make it to the bedroom, Oliver’s unzipped Felicity’s dress and she’s got his tie unknotted and the top three buttons of his shirt undone. She feels like she's trembling, her skin buzzing, and Oliver has his hands up under her skirt, calloused fingers stroking up her thighs in this way that makes her breath catch in her throat. 

Somehow, she manages to get the rest of his shirt unbuttoned and she pushes it off of his shoulders, running her fingers lightly over the bare skin of his chest. When she trails her fingers over the slanted ridge of muscle above his hip, he gasps, and Felicity makes a quick mental note to touch him there as often as she can. She likes that gasp. 

Oliver makes quick work of taking of her dress and her bra, stripping them off of her so easily that she can’t stop herself from laughing a little. When she does, he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at her, his eyebrows knit in confusion.

“What is it?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Felicity tells him, shaking her head. “You’re just...you’re really good at that.” She nods her head down at her discarded clothes, and he quirks his eyebrow at her.

“I’ve had lots of practice,” he says, his voice low and rough, and Felicity’s about to tease him about that -- tell him now is probably not the best time to remind her about his many previous conquests -- but then he’s ducking his head and pressing a kiss to the bullet scar on her shoulder, and it’s like all the breath gets sucked right out of her. 

He kisses his way across her collarbone and then ghosts his lips up her throat, the stubble on his chin rasping against the sensitive skin on her neck. When he kisses her mouth, Felicity presses her palms against his chest, pushing against him until he’s falling back onto the bed, pulling her down on top of him so that she’s straddling him, her legs bracketing his hips. 

Felicity looks down at him, running her fingertips over his chest and his stomach, tracing the lines of the muscles and the scars that cover his body. She leans down, kissing his jaw and then his neck, moving down until she’s brushing her lips against the Bratva tattoo on his chest. When she runs her tongue along the scarred skin just below the tattoo, she hears him suck in a breath, his body going still below hers. When she glances up at him, he’s watching her in this way that makes her stomach flutter, his eyes dark, his pupils blown wide. She pulls herself up until her forehead is resting against his. Her hair is loose, falling in a curtain around them, and he reaches up, tucking it behind her ears. 

“Hi,” she says, feeling strangely bashful for someone who is straddling her boss wearing nothing but her underwear. 

“Hey,” he says back, and Felicity almost loses her nerve right there, except that suddenly he’s smiling at her, a real smile, his eyes crinkled up at the corners, and his body solid and real under hers, and none of this is a trick, none of this is a ploy. There’s no one here but the two of them. 

She leans down, kissing him again, feeling like she can never get enough of kissing him, like this might be enough. 

But then he slides his hand up her thigh, higher and higher until he’s touching her through her underwear, stroking her through the thin scrap of lace and silk where she's so hot and so wet, and Felicity gasps, her hips jerking, grinding herself against the heel of hand, and yeah, no. Kissing is great and all, but it’s definitely, _definitely_ not going to be enough.

She rolls her hips against his, arching her back, and his hips rise, pressing against her even as he holds her in place, one hand trapped between them and his other hand holding onto her hip, his fingertips pressing against her so hard that she knows its going to bruise. 

When Felicity leans down to press her lips against the long, smooth column of his throat, nipping lightly at the corded muscles there, he surges up so suddenly she almost falls off of him, and she has to press both hands against Oliver's chest to catch her balance, clinging to him as he slides both hands up her back, holding her close and pressing his lips to hers, kissing her hard and hungry, his mouth wet and insistent. 

She reaches down to push Oliver’s boxer-briefs off his hips, and when she touches him, sliding her fingers down the hot, hard length of him, he tips his head back and groans, the sound incredibly loud in the quiet of the room. It’s a really great sound, and Felicity smiles as she wraps her hand around him, stroking him up and down, up and down, and brushing the pad of her thumb across the tip of his cock until he’s writhing beneath her. She can tell he's close -- his stomach muscles so tense that he's practically shaking -- but he clenches his jaw and reaches down to wrap his fingers around her wrist, stilling her hand.

“Felicity,” he breathes, his fingers gentle but firm around her wrist as he pulls her hand away. She whimpers at the loss of contact, but then then he’s kissing her again and pulling at her underwear, a little more roughly than the delicate lace can take judging from the way that it just rips right off of her.

“Sorry,” Oliver mumbles against her mouth, but he doesn’t sound sorry, not at all, and then he’s sliding one finger inside of her, then two, crooking his knuckles as he strokes in and out, pressure building deep inside of her as his thumb circles her clit until her whole body feeling like it’s coming apart, shuddering and shaking, her vision going white.

“Whoa,” she says, once she’s finally able to manage something approaching a coherent word, and Oliver huffs out a laugh as he slides his fingers out of her. 

“I mean,” Felicity babbles, feeling a little dazed. “That was...and we haven’t even...I didn’t think -- _not_ that I have thought about this...or you know what? I have _totally_ thought about this, I --” She cuts herself off with a gasp as Oliver angles his hips up slightly, lifting her up and repositioning her so he can slide into her, filling her up and taking her breath away. 

Felicity braces her hands on his chest, staring down at him. She can feel his heart hammering in his chest as he stares up at her with his blue, blue eyes. There's a muscle twitching in his jaw, and Felicity can tell he's trying to get himself under control, his body still and tense beneath hers. 

When he starts to move, rocking his hips up to meet hers, Felicity tightens her fingers against his chest, moaning as she tips her head back, arching her back so that the ends of her hair brushing his thighs. He feels amazing and he keeps making these little noises -- quiet and desperate and gasping -- as she rides him, his hands coming up to press against her hips, steadying her as she sets the pace.

He slides one hand to the small of her back as he pushes himself up to press a kiss to her chest, holding her in place as he slides his mouth along her breast, licking and sucking in time with their movements until she’s coming again, sudden and unexpected.

Oliver keeps moving beneath her as she comes apart, his hips pumping into hers until the rhythm gets irregular and he surges into her with a strangled groan, holding onto her desperately with both hands, clutching her against him, his mouth pressed against the side of her throat. 

She can feel his lips moving, but she can’t understand anything he’s saying, and she hazily realizes he’s talking in a different language, babbling in what she thinks is Russian. Felicity rocks her hips in time with his as he comes down, the two of them languidly riding out the last waves of pleasure.

Once they finally stop moving, Felicity leans down to rest her forehead against his, and he reaches up to smooth her hair back behind her ears, leaning up to press a gentle kiss against her lips.

“I already said ‘whoa,’ right?” Felicity says, once she manages to catch her breath. “Because I’m trying to come up with other things to say, but _whoa_ is about what I’ve got. I mean, it’s not often that I can’t think of things to say, but this is one of those times. My mind is just...”

“Felicity,” he says, sounding amused, and Felicity wants him to say her name just like that for the rest of her life. 

“Oliver,” she says back, and he smiles at her, easy and sincere, and something in Felicity’s chest gets tight.

He’s softening inside her, so she slides off of him, boneless and limp as she drags her leg across his hips, collapsing next to him on the bed and turning onto her side as Oliver curls his body behind hers, snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her flush against him. He presses a kiss to the nape of her neck, his mouth warm and soft on her skin. It’s quiet in the room, just the steady hum of the air conditioner and the ragged sounds of their breathing. 

With the small part of her brain that's still capable of coherent thought, Felicity realizes that they should probably talk about this, that they need to figure some things out, and that once they get back to Starling City, things are probably going to be complicated and messy. But, right now, she just wants to lie here, Oliver's body pressed against hers, his legs tangled in hers.

She’s drifting off when she feels him shift behind her, the bare skin of his chest sliding against her back. “Felicity,” he whispers, his voice so low she can hardly hear him. 

And Felicity means to answer him, she does, but she’s just so tired, her body feeling completely wrung out, that she can barely bring herself to move, let alone respond.

He doesn’t say anything else after that, and Felicity’s half-asleep when he tightens his arm around her slightly, pulling her closer so that his lips are brushing the shell of her ear.

“I love you, Felicity,” he says, quiet enough that she knows he thinks she’s asleep, that he thinks she can’t actually hear him. 

Her stomach flips and her breath catches in her throat, and, behind her, Oliver's body finally relaxes, the tension that he always carries seeming to drain out of him.

And maybe she should want more, should want him to say it when it’s not part of a plan, or when he doesn’t think she’s unconscious. That she should want him to shout it from the rooftops or something. 

But she loves him and he loves her, and well. It’s a start.

**

the end


End file.
